


Nightingale

by Sinna



Series: sad gay knights [2]
Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Character, M/M, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 17:33:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13594953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinna/pseuds/Sinna
Summary: They've never been very good at goodbyes.





	Nightingale

“Hold me closer,” Mordred murmured in the chilly moments before dawn.

Galahad obliged, not even bothering to open his eyes. Granted permission, Mordred’s arms tightened around him with a pressure that was almost painful. He buried his face in Galahad’s neck, his breath warm against the soft shirt he hadn’t bothered to take off as they fell into bed the night before.

A thought tugged at his mind. He almost thought he would give up his promised destiny if he could stay here with Mordred forever. But he brushed the fantasy aside. Today, of all days, was not the time to think such things.

Finally, as the light began to creep in, Mordred arose, carefully disentangling himself from Galahad’s side.

“Already?” Galahad asked.

Mordred nodded to the window, where the sun was already half-risen.

“The servants will have started breakfast by now,” Mordred remarked in place of an answer.

“Would it really be so bad if someone found out?” Galahad wondered idly.

It was a fair point, he thought. They’d hardly be the first knights to find companionship with each other rather than a wife or mistress. It was true Mordred was older, but Galahad was not so young that anyone would think him naïve.

Mordred frowned, biting his lip as he always did when the subject came up.

“I mean to be king,” he reminded his lover.

Galahad sat up, brushing his hair out of his eyes. As usual, Mordred found a response he hadn’t expected. “What does that matter?”

“I won’t give anyone another reason to deny me my birthright.”

He stood, all feline grace, and stalked to the window. His eyes flitted about nervously as if someone might creep out of the shadows to hurl accusations at any moment. Backlit by the approaching dawn, he looked more like a shadow himself than a man.

“Those who say your ambition knows no bounds are more right than they know,” Galahad commented, more sharply than he intended.

Mordred froze, still as stone and just as silent. Galahad instantly reached out, as if to take back the words. When that proved impossible, he took Mordred’s hand instead and gently pulled him back to bed. Mordred sat, gingerly, and wouldn’t meet Galahad’s eyes.

“When I was a child, I used to think nothing of words like bastard, incest, witch,” he admitted softly. “Mere descriptors. Nothing else.”

“And now?” Galahad prompted.

“Now I know how men can forge such words into blades.” He lifted Galahad’s hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “I would not have our love become another weapon in their arsenal.”

Galahad pressed his lips to Mordred’s forehead.

“I would never allow it.”

“No one would be asking your permission.”

Mordred stood and turned away from Galahad, signaling an end to his willingness to discuss the subject. He gathered the thick strips of fabric he used to bind his chest and glanced at them, then the sun. After a moment, he stuffed the fabric in his bag and pulled on his leather tunic, pulling the laces mercilessly tight so that only the slightest hint of the fabric of his shirt peeked through. He fastened his cloak around his neck and turned slightly towards Galahad.

“How do I look?” he asked.

Galahad looked him over. Even barefoot, Mordred cut a striking figure with his dark eyes, dark hair, and darker clothes. Few would call him handsome, but Galahad numbered among them. But that wasn’t what Mordred was asking. Nor was this entirely about the flatness of his chest or the flare of his hips. After so many years, Mordred could judge such things himself with reasonable accuracy. No, this was about something else.

On the nights Mordred stayed with him, he allowed himself a softness Galahad did not think he ever showed anyone else. Something in the curve of his smile – sincere, for once – or perhaps the set of his shoulders. Galahad treasured that softness, but he knew Mordred would rather die than show a hint of it to anyone else.

“You look like yourself,” Galahad assured him, the simplest answer he could think of.

Mordred smiled – the bitter smile the rest of the court knew so well. Even though Galahad could reach out and touch him, he seemed suddenly very far away.

“Will I see you tonight?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” Mordred offered, lacing his boots. “Gawain has invited me to go hunting with him. We could be gone for up to a week. But if I’m back by nightfall, I’ll come to you.”

It was unlikely, Galahad knew. None of the Orkney brothers were ever satisfied with a hunt that lasted less than three days. But Mordred wasn’t lying. If he did return, he would come. There was a small comfort in that.

“You know Percival and I leave tomorrow.”

Mordred’s eyes hardened. “I’m aware.”

Of course he was. How could he not be? The quest was the talk of the castle. For the first time, Galahad realized how much it must be hurting him. He scoffed at Mordred’s dark warnings of his fate, but Mordred held them as gospel.

He pulled Mordred closer and kissed him. Mordred went stock-still for a moment, before finally letting himself relax into it, eventually wrapping his arms around Galahad. They stood like that for what felt like hours, though it must have been less than a minute.

“I’ll be back,” Galahad promised. “We’ll see each other again.”

Instead of comforting Mordred, the words seemed to do the opposite. He pushed Galahad away.

“I suppose you must go pray, Sir Galahad,” he remarked coolly,

Galahad knew Mordred considered their secret affair a sin – that it might have even be what he found so attractive in the first place – but Galahad had never found anything more holy than the taste of Mordred’s lips against his own. Well, nothing but the ever-present heartbeat within him that pulled him towards the destiny that’s been his since before he was born.

Every fiber of his being felt drawn to his holy quest, but he was drawn just as strongly to the dark young man in front of him. He trusted that feeling to bring him home.

And then, maybe Mordred would have to accept that the world wasn’t all darkness and hate. Maybe, they could be more than these clandestine meetings.

Mordred stared at him for a very long time in the pale light of the dawn.

Then he turned and left, closing the door behind him, and Galahad was alone with his thoughts and the call of the Holy Grail thrumming through his veins.

 


End file.
